Across the Pond
by Muddi the Mudkip
Summary: Emerson Pond was the best place in all of Emerson Park to read a book. It had a serene landscape, a peaceful atmosphere, and one obnoxiously loud American. USUK


The best place in all of Emerson Park to sit and read a book was on the east side of Emerson Pond. A lonely wooden bench sat underneath a flock of trees, which conveniently blocked out the sun from getting into one's eyes. The green, luscious grass was always trimmed down to exactly one inch, and a fresh field of daisies and dandelions freckled the hillside. The air was always cool and crisp and the wind never got above a gentle breeze. And the lake itself – oh, the lake! – it lazily drawled across the entire park and seemed endless with its glossy surface and clear, clean, and stunningly blue water. The dull overcast was reflected across the pond's smooth surface, which could almost serve as a perfect mirror itself.

It was here on a Monday afternoon that Arthur found himself for his daily read. Every day, from five to seven, he perched himself on the park bench and read a couple of chapters from his favorite novel. His life was stressful: his siblings were treacherously annoying, his job lingered on for much too long and paid much too less, and his love life was less than spectacular; in fact, it was practically nonexistent. However, when he found himself here at this spot, he lost himself in the world of Peter Pan and Harry Potter and Romeo and Juliet (although that last one might not be the most opportune world to become lost in).

Today's book happened to be a classic: _Pride and Prejudice_. Jane Austen was a favorite of Arthur's. Her way with words was absolutely mesmerizing. Arthur aspired to become an author one day, if his drab life allowed him to dream. He had so many goals he wanted to accomplish one day, but as he feared, they were better left as stories in books. Arthur sighed; his life never seemed to get any more interesting. He flipped open the front cover, and, as a habit he tended to do when he was focused on his reading, began murmuring the beautiful words.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife," he whispered.

As Arthur read on and on, the story unfolding and his mind escaping reality, the time seemed to tick away as well. An hour had passed by already, and he had only managed to read five chapters. A personal low. But he didn't care; when the writing was that amazing, why does time even matter? "Oh, Jane Austen," Arthur crooned. "You beautiful writer, you."

"PRETTY WOMAN!"

The loud, abrasive screech nearly made Arthur fell off his park bench.

"What on Earth was that dastardly noise?" he spat. It sounded like a cat getting ran over by a truck.

"Walking down the street! Pretty woman! The kind I like to meet!"

The awful racket seemed to be coming from across the pond. Arthur squinted his eyes a bit to see a small easel set up on the other side and a stocky man with a bomber's jacket dancing around like a madman.

"Tch!" he scoffed. "Must be an American."

Arthur tried to compose himself and go back to reading Jane Austen, but the American's rendition of Roy Orbison was so loud and daunting that Arthur found it impossible to concentrate. He clenched his fist. He wanted to shout across to that man that he needed to cut that out right now or so help him God, but he was taught from a young age to always be a gentleman no matter what, and this seemed like a case of "no matter what." So Arthur sat still.

For the rest of the hour, the American continued to sing out of pitch tunes from other American artists, and Arthur struggled to read his novel. When seven finally came around, he was only on Chapter 7. "Well," he grumbled, "breaking two records in one day."

He went home, drank a glass of wine with his meal, took a small bath, and fell promptly asleep. When he woke up, he made himself a cup of tea, got dressed, and headed for his boring job. He stared at his computer screen, punching in pointless numbers into pointless spreadsheets, occasionally glancing at the clock as he worked. Noon. One o'clock. Two o'clock. Three. Goodness, time, now you choose to go slow?

Finally, 4:30 came, and Arthur rushed out of his office building. He received a strange look from his boss, Ludwig, and a smirk and sneer from his coworker Francis, but he didn't care. Mr. Darcy was waiting for him.

Arthur found his way to Emerson Park and sat down on his favorite bench. He flipped open the book to where he last left off, and began to read.

"JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL!"

Oh, God. Not _him _again. Arthur peered over the edge of his book to see that, indeed, the dinky little easel and its American owner were standing on the other side of the pond. This time, however, he seemed messier. A couple of stools were milling about in the grass, and other materials were strewn across the ground. Apparently he really got into his artwork.

As the American continued wailing out the lyrics of more Journey songs, Arthur found it harder and harder to focus on his book. Honestly, if that man wanted to make a spectacle of himself, he should bring a tuner and at least be in tune. Was that too much to ask?

"DOOOON'T STOP—"

Apparently, yes.

And when Arthur came back the next day, the obnoxious American had returned once more. How absolutely _aggravating _that that American dare take over Emerson Pond, but Arthur was not about to leave his favorite spot, oh no. He had many fond memories of stories in this spot, and he was not going to change that. The American would finish his painting and leave, and he would be on his way, and Arthur would be back to his peaceful and pleasant reading.

But that didn't seem to be the case. All that week, the American showed up to paint and screech tunes. Arthur had never had this much trouble reading before. He should be done with his novel by now, and he wasn't even halfway finished yet! Finally, when he arrived Sunday afternoon, the American was nowhere in sight. The pond had returned to its usual serene atmosphere. Arthur took this opportunity to take in a deep breath and enjoy the blissful air. Oh, how he missed this pond. The birds were chirping, and the air was gently swaying the fields of flowers and the lazy leaves of the trees. Everything was back.

Arthur sat down on his bench and began to read again. He stopped ever couple of pages or so to look up, but the American had not shown up yet. It was great. In fact, it was a little _too _great. Surely he had not finished that painting so soon. The canvas he seemed to be painting on sprawled out over the edges of the easel; simply put, it was huge! There was no way he could have finished whatever he was painting in only a week. It was actually starting to worry Arthur. The American was never this late in showing up. Surely nothing bad had happened to him.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Arthur moaned. "You're caring about someone you don't even know!" He had forgotten he stopped caring about people a long time ago.

But it was bad. He was so focused on wondering where the American was that he was concentrating even less on his novel than he had when the American was here. He wanted to slap himself. He was being pathetic. _Stop wondering and go back to your book!_

His heart skipped a beat. He was here. The American was here. He seemed to be a bit flustered, because he was rushing around his perch from across the pond trying to set up his equipment. A loud _crash _followed by a "Dang it!" echoed throughout the park as the American proceeded in picking up a large red toolbox.

Arthur sighed and settled back into his bench. Nothing had happened to him. He was safe. B-because you have to watch out for Americans. That crazy lot, them. So unpredictable. Arthur went back to his novel, rest assured that the American had not killed himself.

"HEY!"

Joy. What song was he going to start out with today? His choice in music was actually getting to be quite impeccable. If only his singing was that perfect as well.

"Hey!"

Strange. Didn't seem like any song he had ever heard of.

"Hell-oo!"

Arthur scrunched his rather bushy eyebrows. Was he talking to him or something? He set down his book to see an arm flailing around wildly on the other side.

"Heee-y!"

Arthur froze. They had made eye contact. Now they had to engage in actual conversation. Maybe if he slowly looked back down at his novel, he could pretend he had never noticed him…

"Hey, I know you see me! You put down your book!"

Bollocks. Caught in the act.

"At least wave or something so I know you see me!"

Arthur raised a meek hand and motioned it a smidge side to side. His entire arm felt like it was made of lead.

"There, see?" If Arthur could see the American better, he was sure that he had on a smug smirk right now. "That's better!" The American put down his arm and started massaging it. He muttered something incoherent to Arthur's ears. When he was done, he looked back up at the panic-stricken Briton.

"I thought since you're always at this park with me, we should get to know each other!" he shouted. "At least I hope you're the same person! You're about the same height, and you always read the same book, and I think you wear the same thing every day!" He scratched the back of his head. "Sorry, Texas doesn't work great with long distances."

Texas? What in bloody hell was he talking about?

"A-anyway, I thought I should introduce myself! My name's," he took a dramatic pause, "THE HERO!"

The pond was silent. Arthur could have sworn he heard a cricket chirp.

The American's choppy, crass laughter broke the silence. "I'm just kidding you! The real name's Alfred! It's nice to meet ya!"

He waved again. Arthur had no idea whether he should wave back, or run away as fast as possible.

"What's yours?" Alfred called back. Oh, no. Arthur was not about to scream across this pond at some stranger. He was, after all, a gentleman.

"T-that's cool if you don't wanna answer me! I understand! I thought you would be a quiet person since you read books all day!" He laughed that Americanized laugh again. "Me? People tell me I have a, uh, boisterous attitude!"

Arthur stared back in silence. He liked it better when the two men were off in their own worlds and not conversing with each other. Alfred seemed like the kind of person who loved everyone he met, while Arthur was quite the opposite. He hated people.

"It was nice meeting you, Mysterious Bench Dude!" Alfred waved a final time and went back to his painting. Arthur took in a deep gulp of air. He could finally breathe again. Goodness, that was embarrassing. Good thing Emerson Park was usually deserted.

The next day Arthur came, Alfred had already set up shop across the pond. Arthur sat down on his bench and covered his face with his book, hoping to God that he wouldn't try to start up another conversation with him again. That was simply _mortifying._ Arthur flipped the page and continued to read. He was surprised at how easily he was able to concentrate on the story. Maybe it was because it was so quiet. Why was it so quiet? Arthur set down his book to see a little motorized boat coming towards him going _patter patter patter._

Arthur must have looked really appalled even at that distance because Alfred started laughing. "Look at it!" he yelled, pointing at the water. Arthur grudgingly got up from his spot and picked up the boat. Inside of it were a remote control and a message in a bottle. He popped off the cork top and tapped on the bottle to release its contents. A mechanical pencil fell out along with a piece of notebook paper sloppily rolled up with a rubber band. He unfolded the note and began to read.

_Dear Mysterious Bench Dude, _it read,

_I thought since you're not much of a yeller that you would prefer this method instead. I don't have to get to know someone through their voice; their handwriting works too! So just write back your name or something and send it back to me. The other controller in the boat is for you. I'm kind of into robotics and stuff._

_Love,_

_Alfred_

Arthur looked up at the blonde American who seemed to be staring back at him expectantly. He sighed; might as well humor him. Maybe if he did this, that American would get off his back.

_Dear Alfred,_

_You certainly are persistent. My name is Arthur Kirkland. Although if you really wanted to speak with me, you could just get up and walk around this pond, you know. It is not too difficult. Also, are you completely comfortable with saying "love" to an absolute stranger?_

_Cordially,_

_Arthur_

He rolled the letter back into the bottle, and after fumbling around with the controls a bit, sent the boat back across to the west side. Alfred reached for the bottle before the boat even touched shore and had scribbled back a reply before Arthur could even finish reading a page. The boat had lazily drifted back to Arthur's side with a dull thud on the grassy bank.

Arthur popped the bottle open once more and read Alfred's messy scrawl.

_Dear Arthur,_

_Dude, that name is __so__ British. You do live here, right? You are a British guy? I'm just going to guess so. And the walk around the pond is too far! I'm a lazy American! I'm an American, by the way, if you couldn't tell. All my other British friends here say that I'm a really noticeable American. I don't understand what they mean, though. And for the record, no, I'm not comfortable with saying love to an absolute stranger. But you're not an absolute stranger: I knew you liked to read books, and now I know your name! So now you are an acquainted stranger._

_Love,_

_Alfred_

_P.S. Tell me more stuff about you!_

Arthur rolled his eyes. He scribbled back a response in the margins of the notebook paper.

_Dear Alfred,_

_I cannot possibly fathom why people automatically assume you are an American. Yes, I am British. I live here, and Emerson Park happens to be my favourite spot in all of England. More information about myself? That's a highly unorthodox method of trying to become friends with someone. My favourite color is green. I love tea, especially Earl Grey. And I've always wanted to own a pet cat. Does that satisfy you?_

_Cordially,_

_Arthur_

He sent the message back, and before he knew it, a reply had already been sent. He had to give Alfred credit: Americans were very prompt.

However, due to the limited space of the piece of paper, all formalities had been abandoned and a hasty line had been scratched.

_Of course not! Tell me a secret you wouldn't tell anyone else._

Arthur looked back across the pond and wildly shook his head. Alfred made some intense motions with his hands and nodded furiously.

_No _was all he wrote.

_Please? _was the reply back.

And _absolutely no _was the rebuttal.

_If you tell me your secret, I'll tell you mine._

Arthur pondered this for a second, then wrote, _Why would I care? I don't even know you._

The next message took a bit longer to return to Arthur, but when it did, it was a fresh, clean piece of paper.

_Sorry it took a bit. I had to dig around my stuff for some more paper. That last one was getting cramped. My full name is Alfred F. Jones, I'm in my third year of college with a major in engineering and a minor in studio art, I used to be the quarterback for my high school football team, I come from a wealthy background, my favorite food's hamburgers, I'm a coffee-drinker, and I __love__ classic rock. Now you know me, so tell me your secret!_

A college student? Arthur was surprised. He figured the American to be much younger than he was; in fact, Alfred was probably only two or three years younger than him.

_Tell me yours first, and then I'll tell you mine._

The boat pattered back after a few minutes, and Arthur found his heart racing for some reason as he unfolded the piece of paper. Why? This was just some random person. Why would his secret be so important to him?

_If British people have a stereotype for being stuffy, old coots, then you are fitting it perfectly. Fine. I'll tell mine first. Most people when they see me think, "Oh, look at that guy, he's so manly and muscular and thick skulled and dimwitted and" okay, well you get the point. They tell me things like "He exudes testosterone" and "he's so wealthy, anyone who marries him will be a lucky girl" and just weird stuff like that, and I guess it's true: I love sports and engineering and beef and I don't really know where I'm going with this. Well, basically…_

_I'm gay. Yup._

Arthur looked up at the man sitting on the west side. He was cross legged sitting on the grass, staring back at Arthur with a sort of innocent smile on his face, curious for acceptance.

_It's funny, _Arthur wrote back, _your_ _secret is the same as mine._

Perhaps it was the breaking of this barrier, or maybe it was because both so eagerly enjoyed getting messages that the two continued their written conversation for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening hours.

_Shoot!_ Alfred wrote. _I spent all day talking with you and I didn't get any work done on my painting. Tomorrow, less talking, more work. You WILL be here tomorrow, right?_

_Of course, _Arthur replied. _Don't you worry your ahoge off._

When Alfred read the final message, he grinned and waved back to Arthur. It was hard to see in the dark, but the moonlight reflected off of the pond illuminated Alfred's glasses. Arthur had a strange feeling about this man. As though if he ever left him, he wouldn't be able to continue life easily. How did he ever cope before? But he didn't… _like _him for heaven's sake. That would be too strange. Too strange indeed.

The following week was filled with sporadic messages between the two, and Arthur felt like he had known Alfred all his life. It was a nice feeling. As though a missing part of him had been recovered. On Friday, Arthur was about to read the final chapter of _Pride and Prejudice _when another message drifted over to him.

_I finished my painting! It's beautiful!_

Arthur flashed him a huge thumbs-up. In turn, Alfred gave him two.

_Congratulations. Turn around your easel so I can see it._

The message Arthur received after that was short: _No._

He was greatly offended by that. _What do you mean, "no?" You have been working on that bloody painting for two weeks now, and you won't let me see it?_

_No, because it won't do my painting justice if you see it from that far away. How about this: in a week, there'll be an art show going on near my college, and my painting will be on display. If you come to it, then you can see it._

Arthur chuckled. _You drive a hard bargain._

Alfred smiled back and wrote down some directions for the art show. Arthur sent his final message across the pond (_I cannot wait to see it._) and Alfred began packing up his things. Arthur's heart sunk. In reality, with the finishing of his painting, Alfred wouldn't be coming back every day to paint. What if he never came back? Was this it? No… not when they were getting to be close friends! It couldn't end like this!

He sighed. Life would go on. It would go back to being the same, boring lifestyle he had always learned to cope with. He looked down at his novel. He had made it to the final page.

"With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them." Arthur closed his book and stared out into the everlasting stretch of Emerson Pond. The trees were swaying with the gentle breeze, and the lake was as glossy as ever. With a final look across his shoulders, Alfred gave a huge wave, and disappeared into the forest of trees.

That Saturday was the loneliest Arthur had felt in a long time. Even his new novel, _A Tale of Two Cities, _could not cheer him up.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Arthur sighed. Indeed it was. The trees seemed to block out more sunlight than usual, the birds seemed surprisingly quiet, and the wind picked up, creating ripples out on the pond. Arthur leaned over to peer into the water, but he was greeted by the distorted face of a sad Englishman. The only thing he had to look forward to was that art show.

The days trudged onward, his job was more terribly boring than before, his siblings would not cease in their complaining phone calls to him, and books had failed him. Arthur legitimately thought he was going to die from boredom.

Finally, _finally, _the day had come. Alfred's art show. Perhaps Arthur was a bit too excited for when he arrived at the building where it was located; he had to loiter around for a solid ten minutes before they actually opened. When the doors unlocked, Arthur burst in, searching around frantically for anything with Alfred's name on it.

Apparently the art show sponsored dozens of local artists because it took forever to find anything. Large amounts of people had flocked into the building, and Arthur had only ventured in halfway. As he searched more and more paintings, he began to lose hope. Maybe the art show didn't think Alfred's painting was good enough to be on display with some of these other wannabe Picassos.

Arthur stopped in his tracks. There, on the very back wall. A rather large canvas board painted with oil based paints.

_Portrait of an Acquainted Stranger, _by Alfred F. Jones.

He felt his jaw drop. It was the only logical reaction to a painting of this grandeur.

It looked just like Arthur's view of Emerson Pond. The luscious, shady trees; the glassy, crisp pond; the freshly cut, green grass; the roaming, wandering hills; the field of daisies and dandelions. Everything was there. Except it was a mirror image of Arthur's point of view. And on the other side of the pond wasn't an American singing out of tune rock songs. It was a lone man in a green sweater vest sitting on a wooden bench reading a book. An overcast cloud drifted across the painting's sky and let loose a burst of sunlight, casting the lone man in an illuminated ray. It was official.

Arthur was in love with Alfred F. Jones.

"Do you like it?" Someone snuck up behind Arthur, and his breath tickled his ear.

"I love it."

Alfred chuckled. "I'm so glad those are the first words I get to hear come out of your mouth." Arthur turned around to see the American face-to-face for the first time. He was much taller than he was, and he certainly was as muscular as he claimed he was.

"Hi," the American said, reaching out an arm. "My name's Alfred."

Arthur smiled. A real, genuine smile. One he hadn't felt in years. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Arthur."

"Arthur," Alfred repeated. "So wonderfully British. You know, your accent is exactly as I imagined it would be."

Arthur scoffed. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Hey, don't get offended!" Alfred laughed. "I'm a big fan of accents!"

"Right, I'm sure you are."

"Dude, I promise!"

Arthur glared at Alfred, who was staring back down at him with large puppy-dog eyes. And suddenly, all the tension of actually meeting him for the first time broke down, and Arthur lost his mind for a split second. He attacked Alfred into a big bear hug and whispered into his ear, "You git."

Alfred just tightened his arms. "I know," was all he said.

There are many great places in Emerson Park to read a book, but none better than in front of east Emerson Pond. There is no other place in the park where one can read a book and find true love at the same time.


End file.
